


the second before we jump

by lemonpie



Series: you said you loved me when you were drunk [1]
Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Autism, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Self-Acceptance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22963078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonpie/pseuds/lemonpie
Summary: Barry, Hank is coming to realize, is like some kind of untamed animal. Nervous and flighty, equally likely to bite your arm off as he was to bolt in the opposite direction given half the chance.He's also coming to realize that Barry, like an abandoned dog, is also extremely eager for any sort of affection or comfort anyone is willing to offer him. It's incredibly easy to tell him what to do, and something in Hank is fiercely protective over him because of that.Yeah, Barry's a grown man and all, but he never learned how to grow up.(repost!)
Relationships: Barry Berkman/NoHo Hank
Series: you said you loved me when you were drunk [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650250
Comments: 7
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is a repost because i accidentally orphaned this whole series during a breakdown oop

Barry starts showing up to class with brightly colored band-aids wrapped around his fingers. At first, it's just one or two, easy to miss, but then it becomes five, six, ten, twelve. Orange seems to be the favourite, followed by pink and green. There are no red ones. 

_("Barry, how many times I tell you? Do not pick, is bad for skin! Here, which color you want? Orange again? Okay, sure."_ )

He picks at the edges of them, rather than at the skin on his fingers. It hurts a lot less. And when there are no more wounds, sometimes he'll quietly set the packet on Hank's lap. And Hank will smile at him all big and gentle and it makes Barry's chest hurt, and he'll wrap them around his fingers just as carefully as he had when each of them was covered in blood. 

Hank doesn't usually manage to coax Barry out of the apartment. He's happy to sit there, huddled under blankets, and play video games until his heart stops or he has to go to acting class. Hank does usually convince him to shower regularly, and eat sometimes, and take his medication. 

But today, Barry's feeling… Spontaneous, apparently. So he lets Hank talk him into going out for brunch and even daringly allows Hank to hold his hand while they're walking, which he never does. 

His hands are covered in rainbow band-aids, rough and calloused. Hank's, by contrast, are extremely soft. He uses some kind of fancy moisturizer that makes his skin smell like green tea. Barry sometimes let Hank put it on his cracking elbows and knees. 

So, they're holding hands, and Hank is chattering, and it's good. "-Think it would be great, good movie, I have heard much good things- Oh." 

Barry has stopped dead, and his hand stays tight in Hank's, dragging him to a stop too. "Barry?" 

"Barry!" Calls another voice, an unfamiliar voice. Unfamiliar to Hank, anyway. "Hey!" 

It's the blonde girl from Barry's acting class. Barry rips his hand away from Hank's so fast he's worried they both get a friction burn. 

With him, Barry is loud. Well. Louder, anyway. He kicks Hank's ankles when he tries to change the TV channel and sighs a lot and complains about the coffee and about the volume on the radio and about the temperature and the weather and just about anything that crosses his mind, really. He doesn't exactly _talk_ a lot, not like Hank does, but he'll grumble under his breath often. 

He knows Barry can field strip a rifle with his eyes closed. He knows Barry can hold his breath for upwards of three minutes. 

He knows Barry gets nightmares, bad ones. He knows Barry howls for someone named Albert and cries in his sleep, quiet weeping that breaks Hank's heart. 

He knows Barry isn't a good person. He _knows_ that. He knows Barry gets angry sometimes, but it never scares him. 

He _knows_ Barry better than Barry knows himself. 

These people - they're Barry's friends. But they don't know him the way Hank knows him. 

They don't seem to know that the hands shoved in the pockets and the slightly hunched posture means _go away please_. They don't seem to know that the jut of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders means _i'm nervous, i don't want to be here._

Hank does. 

"-All going out for drinks, maybe you and your friend could join us." The girl from the acting class is saying, ignoring all of the screaming warning signs from Barry to back up. "If you want to, no pressure." 

Barry nods, scratching his cheek. "Uh, yeah, sure. Sounds good." He nods, and Hank wants to slip his hand into Barry's to squeeze it and make sure Barry knows he's there. 

But Barry had pulled away from him, in that split second moment, and Hank can't pretend like it didn't hurt. 

Barry, Hank is coming to realize, is like some kind of untamed animal. Nervous and flighty, equally likely to bite your arm off as he was to bolt in the opposite direction given half the chance. 

He's also coming to realize that Barry, like an abandoned dog, is also extremely eager for any sort of affection or comfort anyone is willing to offer him. It's incredibly easy to tell him what to do, and something in Hank is fiercely protective over him because of that. 

Yeah, Barry's a grown man and all, but he never learned how to grow up. 

"-This is Hank, by the way." Barry is saying now, and Hank shakes out of his thoughts to give his best charming smile to the girl despite how he wants to rip her nose off with his teeth. 

Maybe he and Barry aren't so different after all. He offers his hand to shake, hauling his messenger bag on his shoulder with the other. "Sally Reed." She tells him, and he smiles wider, tightens his grip a little when she shakes his hand. 

It's a bit petty. 

Hank just didn't get how she could ignore such clear warnings from his Barry about how close she was.

\---

So. Drinks. 

It's Later, and they had gone home first. Barry had spent forty-five minutes sitting under the shower until Hank had barged in and brushed his teeth, which was enough to stir him. 

He climbs out laboriously, like every limb is laden down, and picks up a towel to dry himself off.

Sometimes the silence is alright. Sometimes, Barry needs the quiet. But Hank is slowly learning to recognise the different breeds of Barry Silence, and this, he knows, isn't a good kind. 

"I think we should go out with your friends." He says, watching Barry in the mirror. Watching him ruffle his hair dry, watching him glance up at Hank. Sees the confusion in the furrow of his eyebrows where anyone else would see anger. 

"Why?" 

Hank doesn't even know. "It will be fun, no? Meet, break bread, have nice time." It's like poking the bear. "What is matter? Are you ashamed of me, Barry?" 

He's still stinging, still smarting from the friction burn of Barry's hand ripping away from his.

"No!" Is that anger, in the tilt of his shoulders, or fear? "No, I'm not- I'm not ashamed of you, Hank. I just- Haven't told them, about any of this, about-" Hank watches him swallow and look at his feet in the mirror. 

"What?" Hank prompts, maybe a little viciously. "What is it, Barry? If you are not ashamed of me, then-" 

"It's _me._ " Barry says, cutting him off despite how quietly the words come out. Dejection, now, in the slump of his shoulders and the curve of his spine. "It's me I'm ashamed of, Hank, not you." 

That wasn't normal. Normally, if Hank pressed and pressed, Barry would get angry. Usually, Hank knew the buttons to push to get a reaction. 

This, the sad curl of his body, it wasn't something Hank knew. 

"I… They don't know I even _like_ men, and I…" He tugged at one of the green band-aids on his fingers, hard. "I don't want to tell them." 

And suddenly, like the rush of blood following a ruptured artery, Hank _understands._ He understands what that curved posture means. "Oh. Oh, Barry," 

"Don't. Just… Don't, Hank." 

And _there's_ anger, now, wrinkling the bridge of his nose and furrowing his brows, all the signs Hank knows, but it seems tired, like he's just going through the motions of anger without feeling it. 

Hank can't help himself. He goes to Barry and hugs him with all the fierceness he has in him, and Barry, as he always does, seems shocked, lifting his arms and tensing his chest and making a startled little noise. Then, as he always does, he relaxes into it, bowing himself almost in half and tucking his nose against Hank's neck and breathing deep, hitching like he's going to cry. 

He doesn't. He never does. But Hank croons gently and runs his fingers through Barry's hair. It's a little bit funny, a guy as big as him curled up against a guy as small as Hank, but he doesn't mind. 

"You don't have to tell them." He murmurs, once Barry's breaths have evened out again. "We don't even have to go out with them." 

Barry shakes his head against Hank's shoulder. "We should." 

Hank sighs, still trailing his fingers through Barry's hair. "Do you want to?" And listens to Barry's little huff against his neck. It makes him smile, despite himself. "Because if you do not want to, we will not go. We can sit on couch and watch reruns of your show." 

Barry shakes his head again, not detaching himself just yet. "No, I said I would, and I've been blowing them off for weeks." He mutters, and Hank feels his jaw twitch with how he grinds his teeth, a new habit he's picked up. Then he sighs. 

He sighs a lot. At first, Hank had just thought Barry was annoyed with him, but he quickly learnt that it was quite the opposite. Like the different brands of Silence, Barry has different brands of Sighs, too. 

It's a whole language, and Hank is flying towards fluency in it with a speed that surprises even him. 

This sigh is soft and slow, and Hank knows it's just him calming down, releasing the thoughts that are swirling. 

"Okay?" Hank prompts, when Barry doesn't talk again. Part of him wants to go, wants to show Barry off. He always sort of feels like that, though - Barry is big, broad, tall dark and handsome. Hank knows people look at him.

Barry nods. He still hasn't removed his head from Hank's shoulder. He doesn't plan to, it seems like. "Do you want to go?" 

Another sigh, this one angrier. "Yeah, yeah." Barry mutters. "I guess so." 

And that's that. 

Barry finally pulls away, straightens up. He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs, shaking his head. Hank watches him, watches the broad planes of his chest inflate, the gentle curve of his shoulders, the bend of his knee. 

_Gee,_ He thinks to himself, as he watches, _you've got it bad._

And he does. 

So Barry gets dressed, stacking the layers on as usual, even though usually when they're at home he'll brave a t-shirt or even a tank top on rare occasions when it's really hot. 

Hank, meanwhile, gives his clothes a lot of thought. He always does. Barry has his stupid basic shirts, and jackets and yeah, sure, they look great, sure, whatever, you're hot, shut up. Hank doesn't _have_ that boring shirt luxury. 

So he digs around in their (mostly his, since everything Barry owns can fit in one drawer of their shared dresser) closet for a while, muttering to himself while Barry watches him from the bed, his hair starting to curl. He needs a haircut. 

"You need haircut." Hank says, glancing over his shoulder. Barry touches the slight curl of his hair and shrugs. Hank knows he gets nervous at having someone with scissors so close to his neck. "I will do, later." 

Immediately the tension goes out of him, and Hank smiles knowingly. It's easy to reassure Barry if you know the right words to say. 

It's just as easy to rile him up if you know the wrong ones. 

As Hank watches, Barry pulls at the green band-aid on his left middle finger again. He's got one knee drawn up to his chest, cheek resting on it. If the band-aids weren't there Hank knows he'd have pulled off almost all the skin around his nail by now. 

It had been a spontaneous choice on Hank's part. The band-aids, that is. He had found them during a CVS run and thought it might be nice to have just in case, and then Barry had showed up with bloodied fingers and Hank didn't have any regular ones, and Barry seemed to really like them. 

So he kept getting them.

On a usual night, he and Barry would be winding down. Barry would probably already be in his pajamas. They'd watch TV, maybe make out a bit if Barry was in a good mood, and go to bed. 

This isn't a normal night. 

Instead, now, they're stepping outside together, one excited, one not so. 

Hank squeezes Barry's hand and for once he doesn't pull it away. 

This, he thinks to himself as he looks up at the underside of Barry's clenched jaw, is going to be a rough night.

(That turns out to be the biggest understatement Hank has ever made.) 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So he goes home, because that apartment with the bright mint blanket and the colorful pillows and the fat orange cat that Barry adopted from the shelter is his home now, no matter where he goes or what he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> second repost, after this one everything is new

"That was an absolute shitshow." 

Barry is angry. This is familiar. What isn't so familiar is the fact that Hank is angry too. He doesn't get angry too often, or, he tries not to. "I told you we shouldn't go!" 

Hank scoffs, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. "Uh, no, that is not how conversation went. I said we did not have to go. _You_ insisted!" 

"That's not how I remember it!" Barry rebukes immediately, towering over Hank, who puffs up his chest and jabs a finger into Barry's. 

"That is because is never your fault, Barry! Always someone else to blame! Have you ever thought maybe you should take responsibility for actions? Hm? No?" Hank makes a rude noise. "Did not think so!" 

To be fair, it had been an absolute shitshow. It had started out alright. The class had been charmed by Hank's accent and the stories he weaved. But the Barry they knew and the Barry Hank got to see were two different people, and Barry had visibly struggled with how to act and what to say. 

"Maybe if you did not lie all times, you wouldn't need to fight like this!" Hank puts his hands on his hips. Barry is getting worked up, now, pacing, rubbing his hands together. 

Barry snorts. "Oh, what, like I could just go, 'hey, you know that guy I introduced you to? Yeah, he's the head of a mafia, and he kills people! But don't worry, guys, because I kill people too! We're perfect for each other!'" 

"You know what? I can't do this." Hank raises his hands and turns away to stomp into the bedroom. "I am going to stash house to stay with Cristobal until you sort your shit out."

"What?" Barry snaps, his body bristled, prepared for an attack. Hank grabs his duffle bag from under the bed and starts filling it with clothes. "Hank, what are you-" 

Hank ignores him and hauls the bag up over his shoulder, eyes blazing. "Call me when you figure out which life you want to live, Barry." 

The door slams shut behind him, leaving Barry in deep, ear-ringing silence. A loud silence. Hank gets in his car and drives so angrily he almost crashes twice.

He manages three days at the stash house with Cristobal. 

But the thing is. The thing is, Hank, while an optimist at heart, loves to rile people up. Ans Barry rises to the bait every time, and Hank _loves_ it. Cristobal… Doesn't. He may be the head of a mob but he doesn't rise like Barry does, he just looks disappointed. Hank manages three days, and then he takes his things and leaves much more quietly than he arrived. Barry hadn't texted him, or called him to apologize, but then, Hank hadn't expected him to. Maybe he shouldn't go back, teach Barry a lesson. 

But he knows he can't do that. 

So he goes home, because that apartment with the bright mint blanket and the colorful pillows and the fat orange cat that Barry adopted from the shelter is his home now, no matter where he goes or what he does. 

It's quiet when Hank opens the front door, and Miles the fat orange cat trots up to him and winds around his ankles, meowing. A peek in the kitchen shows that he's got fresh water and his food bowl is full, and Hank is abruptly filled with a pride so deep he almost chokes. 

Barry had fed Miles while Hank was away, without being reminded or told. 

Even though he knew Barry struggled to get out of bed some days, especially when Hank wasn't there, he must have gotten up to feed Miles. It makes Hank warm inside. He leans down to stroke Miles' big orange head, and Miles purrs like a chainsaw and rolls to show his belly. He seems happy enough, so Hank steps over him to go to the bedroom. 

That's where the worry begins. 

Blood speckles the carpet in the hallway on the way to the bedroom, and Hank frowns to see them. They're rust-colored, a few days old, and Hank bets he knows what they're from. He dips into the bathroom to pick up the half-empty pack of rainbow band-aids and some disinfectant. 

And sure enough, he's there. 

Laying on the bed on his side, facing the window, his eyes open but glassy. Worry spikes through Hank's gut - but not guilt. He doesn't feel _bad_ for leaving Barry alone. God knows he needed the time away. 

"Hey, Barry?" Hank says softly, walking around to the side of the bed so Barry can see him. "I'm back. You fed Miles while I was gone. That's good." 

Barry doesn't stir but Hank hadn't been expecting him to. 

He sits down on the side of the bed and reaches out to brush Barry's hair from his forehead. "You hurt your hands again." He continues, rubbing the crease between Barry's eyebrows with his thumb. 

One of Barry's hands is resting on the pillow next to his head, the other curled into his chest protectively. 

"I didn't." 

It's hoarse, barely audible, and it makes Hank's face crease in confusion. He shifts on his feet a little. "What do you mean?" 

Barry swallows, Hank can see the bob of his throat. "I didn't. Feed Miles." 

Hank's face creases more. "What are you talking about? There's food in bowl." He sits down on the edge of the bed. "Barry, what do you mean?" 

Hank's blood runs cold when Barry next speaks. "Fuches. Came over and helped me. I called…" 

"You called _Fuches?_ " Hank is- fuck, he's so _angry,_ but he's only angry because he doesn't know if he should be worried or not why did Barry call Fuches of all people? Barry flinches, recoiling on the bed, but Hank says, "Barry, why did you call Fuches?" Urgently, reaching out to touch his shoulder and keep his attention. "Barry?"

Barry only shakes his head, and Hank sighs and gently picks up his left hand and the disinfectant. "Alright." He says, gently dabbing the stuff on with a cotton ball. "We can talk when you are feeling better, okay?" 

He thinks while he wraps the band aids around Barry's scabbed hands. Fuches is… Difficult. Barry loves him and hates him in equal measure, and Hank just hates him. For what he turns Barry into when he's around. A submissive, empty shell that just does whatever it's told. He hates it. And the worst part is, Barry doesn't even seem to notice it. He just does whatever Fuches tells him to do, quiet. When he's like that, Hank missed the fiesty, aggressive arguments they have, because it lasts for hours, sometimes days afterwards and fuck, it makes Hank so mad.

"Okay, come on, big guy." Hank says once Barry's hands are all wrapped up. "You have spent enough time in bed for today." Getting Barry up is a task and a half, but eventually, they're standing together, even if Hank is taking ninety percent of Barry's weight. 

He shuffles them off to the living room together and sits Barry on the couch. "You want a tea, Barry?" He tries, but Barry gives no response. "Redbull, then? No?" Nothing. "I will make you a tea." 

He makes them both tea, and Barry lifts his hands to accept the fox-shaped mug without arguing. Hank's jaw clenches, and he sits down on the couch and puts his own tea aside before he shatters the mug in his hands. Barry is cradling his gently, seeming to enjoy the warmth, but Hank can't even take pleasure in seeing Barry content. 

He's going to kill Fuches himself. 

No matter what it takes. 


End file.
